“I live in Hoboken,” Nick mumbles, and I am remembering a Sinatra-centric mix he made for Tris that made me so hot with envy of her that I wouldn’t let her copy my Latin test answers that day.

“College?” I ask him.

“Haven’t figured that one out yet.”

Brick. Fucking. Wall.

This is why I should consider breaking my straight-edge vow. Beer most certainly would help this situation. It probably couldn’t make it any worse.

Basic quiz-show format isn’t working here, so I take inspiration from the divine beings that have performed on this stage this evening. I sing this next question, all fake Julie Andrews shit operetta stylee: “Care to name a few of your favorite things?”

His half smile creeps back. “Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream, original Tiffany stained-glass windows at random houses in Weehawken, my iPod. A hot-oil massage from Reba McIntyre.”

I rest my case.

Did DJ Irony plan to spin “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by The Smiths right now to appease the crowd during the interim stage setup between acts, or is it just coincidence?

What did I miss? What changed?

I take one last shot. Come back to Mama, Nick. You can do it.

“Last moment of true happiness you experienced?” I ask him.

“Sometime before three weeks, three days ago…”

And he’s gone again. Ohhhhh……….

The air is hot here from the surge of people coming in and I watch him watching the door and I realize he’s scared Tris is going to show. She probably will. An underground band about to hit it big performing in the middle of the night for a secret show, surely there’s an almost-famous musician about to come onstage looking for some groupie Tris love.

I feel for Nick. He doesn’t know yet that he’ll be okay without her. Part of me wonders if I should even bother here. The other part of me wants to scream at him: What did you see in her? Why did you waste your life on her?

Only I already know the answers to the Tris quiz show. If I can suck it up enough to look past the obvious—the blond hair, the big tits, the long legs, the tight skirts—I know that there’s this other Tris, this girl who can show a guy a good time without the Caroline variety hangover, make him feel wanted and special until her attention inevitably wanes, this girl who will kick ass at FIT next year, this girl who will have your back, no questions asked.

In Nick’s absence of words and his vacant look, I am remembering junior year in the bathroom, after I’d tanked on a Bio exam. I was drying my hands with a paper towel when Tris came from behind me and snatched the paper towel away from me. “You realize you’ve been drying your hands for about three straight minutes now? You’ve practically parched your skin. You okay?” And just like that I came out with it: “I’m late.” “You’re paranoid,” Caroline had said when I told her, while Tal had said, “Don’t you dare make any decisions without consulting me first.” But it was Tris who grabbed my arm and said, “C’mon.” It was Tris who knew the strictly Jersey public bus that could take us to the nearby CVS and not to the city, Tris who waited outside the bathroom for me at Starbucks while I took the test, Tris who shoved me in the chest afterward and said, “Be more careful next time, bitch.” It was Tris who stood in line to buy me a Frappuccino with her back to me after, knowing I wouldn’t want her to see me cry. And I know we really don’t like each other except for having known each other since elementary school and the whole past and shared childhood of that, and I know she is a lying cheating skank because how could she do what she did to this guy?; but I also know there is like some girl code I should be obeying and not treading into new dangerous territory with her castoff, so maybe that’s why it’s Nick who’s suddenly gone all frigid?

The Smiths song ends, to a smattering of applause coming from the direction of the bathrooms. The cocktail bunny has responded to the urgent calls of nature of a long line of laddies waiting for the loo and unlocked the bathroom door with the key hanging from the chain around her neck. Even with the dank lighting and through the beads separating the bathroom area from the club, it’s clear that it’s Hunter wrapped inside the arms of the singer for Nick’s band, I think his name was Dev. They’re standing against the red wall, locked in one of those deep, soul-enjoined kisses that can only cause observers of the kiss to have a crisis of deep, soul-searching envy.

Nick finally laughs again, and my heart tries not to leap. “That’s our Dev!”

As their mouths disengage, Dev plucks a strand of hair from Hunter’s face and twirls it through his fingers. With his other hand, Dev waves hello to the exasperated line of laddies.

I point out, “Damn, even from here, you can see the smile on his face.”

“Dev’s the reason our band doesn’t have a drummer.”

“How’s that?” We’re going again. Thank you, Dev, you stud, thank you.

“We used to have a great drummer. The guy killed, he was so good. Then Dev ‘turned’ him. The dude didn’t even know he liked boys before—”

“Oh, he knew.” Because they always do, whether or not they’ll admit it.

Nick shrugs. “Could be. But Dev brought him out. And once the closet door had swung wide open, the poor guy wanted a boyfriend. Dev had just wanted a conquest. Especially one who had been the All-American high school track star.”

“Dev is a slut?”

“That’s our boy.”

Dev’s trailing Hunter by the hand now, and they are snaking their way through the club. Their performance has merited the offering of two coveted barstools from the packed bar area. The dynamic duo take these offerings and haul them over to our table and sit themselves down.

“Nice show,” I tell Dev.

“Wasn’t it?” Dev laughs. He looks like the love child of a Bollywood movie star and whoever this year’s Adam Brody is. I can’t blame Hunter, or the M.I.A. drummer. Dev’s a f**king babe, whose point score doesn’t even receive deductions for the faded and torn “Lodi Track & Field” shirt he’s wearing.

Dev’s animation is the antithesis of casual-boy Nick. “FUCK! You heard about the show? Where’s Fluffy! WHERE’S FUCKING FLUFFY!” He plays mock drums on the table and Nick lifts his eyebrow at me and gives me a knowing smile and for a flash lightning stroke of a moment, I suspect the time-out is ending and we might be getting back in the game.

And then our ref sashays to our table like the beauty queen s/he is and addresses Nick like they’re old sorority sisters: “Girl, be a dear and help me with some of this stage equipment, will you?” Nick jumps to his feet like he’s been waiting for Toni’s salvation all along. Good—maybe Toni can share some PMS elixir with Nick and send him back revived.

“WHERE’S FLUFFY!” Dev shouts. He pats my back in excitement then raises his arms like he’s Rocky. “WHERE’S FUCKING FLUFFY!”

Exactly. This was the reaction I expected from Nick when I told him about the show. I mean, they’re only the best punk band out there right now, named for the f**king apathy of a xenophobic f**king nation oblivious to the f**king terror its leaders wreak on the rest of the world because they’re too busy worrying if their cat might be stuck up a tree or something. Where’s Fluffy can actually play instead of just wail like f**king pop-punk goof-offs. They sing everything right about everything wrong—they’ll come on pro-NRA, anti-choice, homophobic—to remind listeners what’s worth fighting for. Where’s Fluffy are the real deal, and if there is anything between me and Nick, it will be determined when the show starts, if we’re front and center in jumping throttling exhilaration together, fist-waving and shouting “oi oi oi” at all the right moments, in sync. So to speak.

The mosh pit will reveal all the answers. The mosh pit never lies.

9. NICK

Things are going so well. We’re volleying words back and forth. Everything she says, I have something I can say back. We’re sparking, and part of me just wants to sit back and watch. We’re clicking. Not because a part of me is fitting into a part of her. But because our words are clicking into each other to form sentences and our sentences are clicking into each other to form dialogue and our dialogue is clicking together to form this scene from this ongoing movie that’s as comfortable as it is unrehearsed.

I know she’s holding back a little. I know she keeps shooting me questions so I won’t get too close to her answers. That’s fine. Who is she, really? Fuck if I know. But I care. Yeah, I’m starting to care.

The club is really packed now, filled with that pre-gig mix of anticipation and extreme impatience. Dev is so completely Dev and ramps himself over to us to lead the WHERE THE FUCK IS FLUFFY? cheer. Tony/i/é comes over and wants me to help with some gear. I look at Norah and almost ask if she’s going to miss me while I’m gone. But I don’t want to push it.

It’s pretty cool to be in the realm of Fluffy, even if I can’t see any of the guys and all I’m doing is making sure the mics work. Just to be standing on their stage is a bit of a rush. I’m testing 1-2-3 and testing FUCK-SHIT-COCK and the crowd is looking at me with this unanimous wish that I’d get the f**k off the stage, and if it wasn’t for the presence of a glowering man in Playboy Bunny pose watching over me, I might be having some head-meet-bottle moments. And it would almost be worth it. It’s not often that you can shed blood for one of your favorite bands.

It’s all so f**king surreal. And suddenly I’m wanting to tell Tris about it. Which is so f**king wrong, but it’s not the kind of thought that’s a choice. Where’s Fluffy was the second show we went to, and the sixth, and the eleventh, and the fourteenth. She’d never heard of them, so I dragged her well past midnight to see them at Maxwell’s, underage but not underambitious. She was so skeptical of bands she’d never heard of—like she couldn’t get a buzz if there hadn’t been some buzz. Where’s Fluffy convinced her, though. She got it on the first song and wasn’t afraid to show it. She whooped and hacksawed and knifed up and hair-flailed nonstop for the full 110 rpm set. Afterward she said, “Man, those guys were hot,” and I was so entirely jealous of them, until she said, “But not as hot as you right now” and I became a firework waiting to happen.

But that wasn’t all. I’m thinking about the sixth time. I was dancing, doing my thing, and she just stopped for a moment, looking at me. And I screamed, “What?” and she screamed back, “You have to stop that,” and I screamed “What?” and she told me, “You’re still here. You have to go farther than that.” And at first I didn’t get it, but then I realized that she was right; I wasn’t giving myself up to the music. I was looking at the people around me. I was self-conscious. I was contexting every single note. “Just let go,” she yelled. And at first I couldn’t, since I was so grounded in the trying. But then the band launched into “Dead Voter” and for the first time ever I freed myself from everything but the chords. I didn’t think about Tris—she had hidden herself behind the song, orchestrating it all. After we were done, sweat-glazed and panting, we didn’t have to say a f**king word. We just looked at each other and there was this recognition. She’d pushed me and I’d gotten there. I was grateful. Am grateful.

I look at the crowd for a moment, trying to find her again. I know she’s there somewhere, even if she’s not in the room. Even if she’s making out with some other guy in some other club without one single synapse connecting a thought of me.

“Wake the f**k up!” some guy pressing against the stage says. I realize that my hands have fallen idle. Like I can’t think of Tris and do anything else at the same time. Which is such a lie.